


A Little Help from My Friends

by Silverhelme



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Drunkenness, Friendship, Gen, Magic Reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 12:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverhelme/pseuds/Silverhelme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This," Merlin informed him as they burst through the door, narrowly dodging a splash of cider from an enthusiastic patron's airborne mug, "was an awful idea."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Help from My Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Canon-compliant up through _Merlin_ S3 episode "Gwaine", with the first scene's dialogue borrowed verbatim. Pretty sure Arthurian legend is public domain at this point, although this particular retelling belongs to BBC/Shine, and those dashing lads on-screen. 
> 
> Also although magic is indeed revealed along the way, Arthur Pendragon is still more oblivious than a box of rocks by the end, so this unfortunately isn't one of _those_ fics.

 

* * *

 

Merlin skidded down the corridor, digging the worn leather of his heels into the tile as he rounded a corner, both hands tightly affixed to the platter against his chest as he sailed through the door to Arthur's chambers without giving him a chance to complain.  
  
"Sorry, I know, I'm late." He set the dish of russets and grapes gingerly upon the desk, adjusting the flagon of cider before daring a look at the prince, whose tone was stiffly cordial.  
  
"Not at all."  _Uh oh._  Cool disinterest was far from Arthur's usual morning repertoire of  surly grousing and easily-dodged articles rocketing through the air, and Merlin had the suspicious notion that he'd landed himself in trouble.  
  
"Good." Again.  
  
Merlin nodded aimlessly behind him before retreating to the rumpled four-poster bed, trying to ignore the sensation of royal eyes boring into him as he made to tug the coverlet up, when Arthur spoke again.  
  
"You're sure you're alright? Not sick, unsteady, about to burst into song…?"  
  
Alright,  _this_  was not what he'd been expecting in the slightest. The manservant's dark brows knit together as he glanced up from the mess of sheets, the slight quirk of a curious smile in place. "No, why?"  
  
Arthur's face, as he slapped one trained hand down upon the desk and brought up a scrap of parchment, could have frozen the royal well. " _Fourteen_  quarts of mead."  
  
Oh. _That_. Merlin tried to stifle a guilty chuckle, hastily tucking in the coverlet and lumping the prince's pillows together as the incriminating list went on. "Three flagons of wine,  _five_  quarts of cider--"  
  
"I can explain," the warlock protested, coming round the side of the bed, wringing his hands in one of Arthur's stray shirts and fighting back the overwhelming urge to grin as the young Pendragon's eyebrows rocketed upward.  
  
"--Four dozen pickled eggs."  
  
"That was Gwaine. He went to the tavern, and uh--" Merlin's face lapsed into something faintly apologetic past his amusement "--he couldn't pay for it."  
  
"So you said _I_  would." Not a trace of sympathy in his tone, as befit the situation.  
  
"Mmm." Merlin seemed to snatch a well-fashioned argument out of thin air and turned his most convincing gaze upon Arthur, wide eyes dangerously persuasive in their innocence. "Now if I hadn't, that innkeeper-- he would have strung us both up!"  
  
The Prince of Camelot had obviously been refining his best impassive glare as he retorted, tone unfeeling. "I fail to see the down side."  
  
A flicker of bewilderment across pale features ended in a small shrug, almost as if hurt that Arthur would suggest such an outcome, before sliding easily back into his typical impudent rejoinder, complete with an mildly-accusing finger. " _You_  said he should be given anything he needs."  
  
Arthur was not overfond of the conversation being trained back to his own guarantees. "Four dozen  _pickled eggs!_ "  
  
"I'm sorry." And his manservant almost seemed it, gaze calculating as he noted the Pendragon's genuine exasperation. "I'll pay for it."  
  
Finally, the first glimmer of satisfaction from the prince all morning: leaning forward in his chair, he fairly smirked at Merlin, tone wicked as he sent the parchment fluttering away.  
  
"You most  _certainly will_."

 

* * *

  
  
Out of all his recent misadventures, Gwaine had to admit that polishing the boots of Camelot's knights was not one he'd prefer to repeat: no matter if he had the help of one or twenty Merlins. However, the day was salvaged with a causal stroll through the famed halls of the Pendragon castle, and the gentle laughter on a familiar maid's face as she passed, lugging more washing around-- _Princess Esmerelda, isn't it?_  
  
A toss of her dark curls and an indulgent smile followed his good-natured wink, and then she was gone, leaving him to wander the draughty halls back to his recent sleeping quarters, wondering if Merlin had returned from his latest errand for the royals.  
  
The swordsman located his unlikely best friend, the prince's serving boy, bent over the wooden table in the Court Physician's chambers, murmuring indistinctly to himself: the pale, dark-haired boy seemed to unconsciously fall silent as the other materialised.  
  
Gwaine flopped down beside him, and the bench groaned comfortably beneath the added weight. "Where are we off to tonight, then?"  
  
"Hmm?" The warlock didn't look up from the mess of herbs strewn across the wooden surface, frowning at a scrap of parchment marked over in Gaius' spidery script. The swordsman rolled his eyes and nudged Merlin in the side, leather vambrace lightly digging into the threadbare patch of blue cotton at his elbow.  
  
"Oh, sorry. Um, just mixing herbs for Gauis…" The manservant wrinkled his nose at a whiff of something Gwaine couldn't quite catch, letting a handful of brown-speckled leaves flutter to the table in exasperation. "I dunno what he wanted though, this isn't turning out right at all." Merlin pursed his lips, shoulders drooping slightly as he brushed the herbs into a pile and glanced over at his companion, blinking.  
  
"Sorry, did you ask me something else?"  
  
Gwaine's scruffy face curled upward in the beginnings of a bemused smirk, one dark brow quirking as he scrubbed at his chin. "Sounds like you could use a break."  
  
Laughing tiredly, the manservant-turned-physician's assistant shook his head, fingering a scattered bundle of lavender. "I'm fine. I mean… I wouldn't complain if Arthur decided to fetch his own dinner for once, but--"  
  
"That'll be the day," Gwaine finished for him, eliciting a weary grin from the lanky servant. "But after you fetch the little Prince's victuals, which tavern's next on the list, eh?"  
  
"Taver--oh,  _no_." Merlin's chin jerked up in surprise, slender brows knitting together in shock. "Gwaine, you can't be serious!"  
  
"As the plague," came the lazy rejoinder, tossed at him with a sly glance and a sprig of rosemary.  
  
"Not after what happened last night."  
  
"Well we can't exactly go back there, it's true, but that's no pity, wasn't very good." Expectant brown eyes found disbelieving blue, and Gwaine pasted on his most convincing smile, paired with a wheedling tone.  
  
"C'mon Merlin, I know there's got to be more than the one around here…" Deftly-callused fingers clasped the pouch at his hip, unfastening the corded knot and showing off the glimmer of a few coins within. "I even have money this time, and won't be buyin' for the whole tavern either, just the two of us."  
  
The warlock's eyes widened, if it were possible.  
  
"The _two of_ \--" Gods, he hadn't been to a tavern for drinking since Arthur dragged him into that dive of a place after a hunt, the very day that Gwaine had sauntered into their lives; and before that, it'd been…  _months_ , at least.  
  
"Yeah, it's a deal, see? Show me the tavern, I buy you a drink. Fair trade, eh?" Gwaine was obviously too preoccupied with his soon-to-be-realised tankard of ale than the manservant's misgivings, even when Merlin shook his head slowly.  
  
"Somehow, I don't think that would be a good idea."

* * *

  
"This," Merlin informed him as they burst through the door, narrowly dodging a splash of cider from an enthusiastic patron's airborne mug, "was an awful idea."  
  
As if personally committed to proving his accuracy down to the letter, Gwaine flashed him a cheeky grin and elbowed him forward. "Ah, don't be ridiculous. We're just out to have a little fun." This noted whilst slipping neatly around a pair of grunting merchants, sleeves rolled to the elbow and engaged in a significantly intense arm-wrestling match.  
  
Laying a hand on his friend's bony shoulder, Gwaine shoved him gently into a free seat and strode purposefully forward towards the bar, rather fetching the ale himself than waiting for one of the limited barmaids to find their bench. "Ale good for ya?" he called over the din, and Merlin attributed his own magic to the fact that he was still able to discern the question.  
  
"Erm, could I have cider, please?" He didn't drink often, and funnily enough when he did, it was usually with Arthur-- after a hunt, tournament, or the like. And the sticky-sweet mead the Pendragon preferred was far too thick for his liking, while ale was a sight too bitter to truly enjoy. Cider had the perfect combination of sweetness and bite, without the sensation akin to swallowing a honeyed frog.  
  
Gwaine merely raised his newly-presented tankard in salute and presumably explained the request to the barmaid, punctuating the order with a wink that set her already rosy cheeks into bloom. Snorting, Merlin rolled his eyes and turned to survey the remainder of the bar, which seemed a bit rowdy at best. It wasn't one he had ever frequented much, even before his self-imposed furlough from tavern goings-on after Arthur toppled into his life; it was a fair pace from Gauis' chambers and there were certainly closer establishments. But this one  _did_  lend the benefit of near-anonymity to his advantage, no one would look up and immediately recognise him as a servant in the royal household: not that it mattered much, but it was rather nice not to have " _Prince Arthur's Manservant_ " tattooed across his forehead, figuratively speaking.  
  
All at once a mug skittered across the tabletop, grating against the grain of the wood before sliding neatly into Merlin's waiting hand, even as he was mere moments away from instinctually guiding it there with a flash of molten gold beneath dark brows.  
  
Fortunately, Gwaine's tankard-skimming skills seemed to be in top shape, and Merlin caught himself before the magic could--would--erupt from his senses: "And there y'are my friend, enjoy."  
  
Long pale fingers curled round the handle, Gwaine clunked his tankard ceremoniously against the warlock's and downed a considerable gulp, grinning all the while. Merlin lifted the ceramic mug to his lips and took a tentative sip, then another, smiling inwardly as the warmth spread from his throat through his chest.  
  
"Mmm… that's good." He nodded appreciatively at his companion, letting the pleasant sensation tug his lips upward in a grateful grin of his own. "Thanks, Gwaine."  
  
"My pleasure." A flick of his mahogany curls and the swordsman was suddenly on his feet again, wiping the froth from his chin with an congenial nod and hefting his tankard, a man renewed. "You ready for another?"    
  
"Anoth--" Merlin eyed his near-full mug, shaking his head quickly. "Nope, still good."  
  
Gwaine shrugged cheerily, already making his way around the remaining tables between them and the bar. "Right then, maybe later."  
  
 _Another?_  It'd be remarkable if he managed to finish this one within the hour, he was far from planning to drink himself into any kind of stupor tonight, especially since he had to bring Arthur his breakfast early: the prince had not failed to inform him of his plans for early training, in honour of the upcoming tournament.  
  
Still, this cider business was all well and good, though hopefully Gwaine would have another round or two and be set for the evening. A sudden, noisy squeal of a laugh from the bar revealed a tittering girl and Gwaine hoisting two tankards, enthusiastically downing the contents of one for a start.  
  
Even as he sipped carefully at his own drink, Merlin was gripped with a sudden mild panic and motioned cautiously at the swordsman with his slowly-emptying mug. "Don't forget, I'm not helping you pay this time!"  
  
The gleaming grin he received from across the room was far from reassuring.

* * *

  
"I think… I'm a little… drunk," Merlin noted giddily, leaning heavily into Gwaine's ribcage as his knees suddenly decided that buckling was in style.  
  
"Nah," Gwaine mumbled, and Merlin couldn't tell if he was imagining the grin in his voice through the haze of cider splashing around in his head. "You're a  _lot_  drunk."  
  
Even as he chuckled, the swordsman's arm tightened around his companion's thinly-jacketed shoulders in the camaraderie that an overabundance of ale tends to bring and then swayed, the two of them staggering back through the empty marketplace bathed in shadow.  
  
"How many tan--tanker--" Merlin tried to frown at his mouth's distinct lack of cooperation, but merely succeeded in triggering the peculiar sensation of what felt like his left eyebrow sliding off of his face as they plodded on. "Erm. How much did I drink?"  
  
"Hell if I know," came the honest reply, and he shrugged beneath the weight of the warlock's stumbling frame. "Eh, I think we're back--this place--thing. Here," he clarified, in case Merlin hadn't caught on. The door was even open: damned nice of the old man to leave it unbolted for them, Gwaine's sluggish thoughts decided, nudging the friend still clinging to his shoulder.  
  
"C'mon Merlin, inside." A muffled groan from the servant had Gwaine tugging him into the darkness, and they both teetered forward suddenly, landing at once in a messy jumble of hay littering the floor, and it was realised that unless Gaius had done some unexpected redecorating in their absence, this was  _not_  the Court Physician's tower.  
  
"Don' think this is… home," Merlin finally provided, but it was too late for him to even finish the thought as his mind slipped away, his fingers curling reflexively around the straw beneath his cheek. Beside him, Gwaine was already snoring.

 

* * *

 

Of course it was just as the first rays of dawn were beginning to stream through the patches in the thatched roof that Merlin awoke, and he squinted in the light and burrowed deeper into his bed. Except.  _Gaius doesn't have a thatched roof._  
  
With a start he jolted upright, horror-struck even as his forehead immediately recoiled in sudden agony.  _Arthur's breakfast!_  
  
Without even bothering to notice wherever it was he had assumedly spent the night, Merlin scrabbled to his feet and staggered outside, into the burgeoning light of day and another headache waiting to happen.

 

* * *

  
This entire business, Merlin decided, was the height of inconvenience.  
  
Not that he didn't deserve it, obviously; all things considered, mucking out the stalls of Arthur Pendragon's favourite steeds was rather fair punishment in light of the morning's already untoward events, and it being barely an hour after dawn at that.  
  
But the warlock was still lingering in that sticky midpoint, caught halfway between still-sozzled past his ears and those first throes of a particularly nasty hangover, sloshing into his frontal lobe with a vengeance he could already feel, and the portion of his generally-gracious temperament that tolerated Arthur's most infantile demands was suddenly much smaller than it had been four--or was it five?-- tankards of cider ago.  
  
Hefting the worn rake in his hands and sifting through a mess of soiled hay, Merlin wrinkled his nose and swept another scoopful of dung behind him, stabbing ineffectually at a new bale and tugging it to pieces. The wood felt cool against his palms and he let his eyes slide shut, savouring the blessed darkness as he scattered the straw across the stable floor, letting his mind uncurl wearily around the presence of the horses nearby.  
  
He was tired, the gentle nickering of the animals was soothing, familiar. Even the stench seemed to fade away slightly as Merlin sighed and whispered under his breath, lips barely moving as he formed the near inaudible spell. At once the slow-building agony behind firmly closed eyes was gone, replaced by a rather contrite assessment that keeping tavern hours was not an experience worth repeating. But even as he had made a blatant idiot of himself, the situation was resolved; Arthur had merely ordered him to the stables without further upbraid, not even Gaius knew of the previous evening's mischief, much to his ward's relief.  
  
And so the throaty mumble that wafted up from somewhere below sent his eyes flying open in shock. "Well good morning, sunshine."  
  
Merlin nearly dropped the rake, groping for the wooden handle and attempting to steady his gaze, blinking rapidly as his recently-attained calm shattered into a thousand jagged pieces and went skittering across the sun-streaked floor.  
  
Tanned hands slid up from beneath a suspiciously human-shaped mound of fresh straw, fingers combing stray pieces out of dark curls; and Gwaine's lazy grin appeared from beneath the hay, scrubbing at his unshaven chin and spitting a fleck of dried grass in the warlock's direction.  
  
"I have to say, don't think I've ever been woken up quite like that before."  
  
The warlock blinked again, wincing slightly as the regrettable pounding in his temples rushed forward with renewed vigour, even while his mouth gaped open in surprise. "Gwaine! How--have you been here  _the whole time?_ "  
  
The swordsman tilted his neck to the side, joints popping as he stretched easily. "Can't remember," he retorted wryly, and the sudden realisation of what Arthur had meant earlier hit Merlin like a sack of potatoes between his lungs.  
  
" _Since you're so fond of walking in with my breakfast an hour late, looking like you spent the night in the stables, you can start by mucking out every stall_."  Prat.  
  
As if waiting for his manservant to call him to mind, the Pendragon prince suddenly strode through the open door, hands on his hips. "Merlin!" A vaguely scathing look from the man in question, though Arthur didn't seem to notice as his gaze at once fell to Gwaine, still stretched out upon a loose bundle of hay. "Gwaine, what are  _you_  doing here?"  
  
"Resting," came the satisfied response, and Arthur's brow wrinkled as he turned his gaze on the manservant scraping out the refuse, fitting the pieces together with a positively baffled expression.  
  
"Ugh, wait-- _did_  you actually spend the night in the  _stables?_  I was only joking, you imbecile!"  
  
Merlin had a perfectly good response for this, if only he could remember it past the fact that he was trying to squint the throbbing grey mass of cranial tissue out of his skull for all he was worth. Gwaine beamed up at him through a hazy stupor, his grin growing wider as Merlin frowned down at him, all the while trying to formulate some kind of answer.  
  
"I don't--you think--" Gritting his teeth, the young warlock glanced at the Pendragon heir through a pounding headache, feeling perhaps more ill than he had in quite a while "--no." He'd have shook his head, if but for the fact that it felt likely to detach under such an exertion. "Just no."  
  
Arthur offered him a look of profound disbelief, scoffing as he spared a glance for Gwaine, still sprawled in the straw, and then back to his manservant with a faintly supercilious air. "Well, whatever you say. But after you finish this, I'll see you on the field. My armour needs cleaning, boots need to be polished, I need clean socks, look after my horse, and--oh yes--I expect my dinner to arrive  _on time_  today, Merlin."  
  
With that final word, the prince of Camelot strode out of the royal stables without so much as a parting glance. Merlin merely hefted the rake, swearing to himself that when he finished with this, he was going straight home to learn a  _lasting_  healing spell… and he was going to learn it  _well._

 

* * *

 

Arthur had given him far more chores than usual, Merlin was sure-- his shoulder hadn't ached like this since the prince had insisted upon using him for target practise three fortnights ago, and that had only come about after he tripped over an errant axe handle and smashed his collarbone on a stack of shields tossed carelessly on a pile. Today the the heir to the throne of Camelot had enthusiastically heaped task upon task as if drudgery were going out of style, and Merlin was not amused.  
  
Prince of Camelot or no, a bad day at sword practise with his knights was no excuse for him to take advantage-- the warlock was only grateful that locating a simple healing spell among Gaius' tomes had proved fairly easy, under the pretence of fetching a fresh tunic from his chamber. The thought that perhaps Arthur was merely seeking to repay him for a late breakfast was foremost in his mind as well, although he decided he'd rather forget that whole mess until later. Gwaine was probably wandering around the town somewhere, he hadn't seen him since the stables…  
  
Sighing, Merlin made his way to the castle kitchens: time to fetch dinner for His Royal Pratness,  _on time_.

* * *

  
Gwaine sauntered up the steps to Court Physician's tower, pushing open the door easily to find an unexpectedly empty chamber. The kettle silent over a cold hearth and what looked to be various herbs strewn across the table, not that he recognised any of them. The old man--Gaius--was gone, most likely out on his rounds again, or maybe reporting to the sorry blighter who called himself Camelot's king.  
  
Dark eyes scanned the empty room once more, a casual shrug and he was turning to leave-- Merlin was probably still scuttling around fetching things for his demanding prince like a good servant, Gwaine was certain he'd find him in the corridors after a search.  
  
And then. The barest sound, so slight that it could easily have been a breath of wind through the open window:  _skrrtch_. A rustle of a maid's skirts in the courtyard below, a muffled voice from somewhere beyond the tower, merely his ears playing tricks…  
  
 _Skrrtch._  
  
Brow furrowing, Gwaine glanced quickly around the empty chamber once more, scanning the corners for more than the barrels of supplies and faint coating of dust therein-- nothing. Narrowed eyes slid across the unobtrusive wooden door to Merlin's bedchamber, caught and lingered just long enough for him to take a cagey step forward, hand inching towards the sword at his waist out of habit.  
  
 _Skrrtch._  
  
He strode silently around the table, feeling a little ridiculous but with suspicion playing on his lips and  _what in hellfire--_  
  
Gwaine took a step closer, dark eyes flicking across the sliver of Merlin's chamber visible through the cracked door, fingers curling around the doorjamb in slow disbelief; glanced through into the tiny, sun-lit room, and promptly dropped any and all previous convictions out the tower window at the same moment.  
  
There was a pair of boots in the centre of the chamber, as well as a scrubbing brush, the latter scraping dutifully along the heels of the former--  _on its own_. The swordsman did a double-take, caught sight of a suit of chain-mail untangling its own links, a sword and gritted stone deftly sharpening the weapon-- and in the corner, hard at work with his back bent over a helmet and polishing rag, was  _Merlin_.  
  
 _Merlin_ \--calm, collected, cider-loving Merlin--was a sorcerer. Gwaine shook his head at the first blow of surprise, yet at once reeling back with sudden clarity. It almost made sense: a generous nature, with his instantaneous commitment to assist others so obviously forefront. And apparently, he was devoted enough to risk his life and his talents to serve Arthur-- and right under Uther's nose, at that.  
  
Peering just a little closer through the door, the swordsman marvelled at the objects levitating so gracefully, performing their own small duties as their master completed his-- and Gwaine couldn't help himself.  
  
"I wonder what Arthur would say if he knew that you were using magic to polish his boots?"  
  
A sharp gasp and the young warlock whirled round, face caught halfway between horror and shock as the helmet tumbled out of his lap, hit the wooden floor and bounced twice with a metallic _thunk!_  before rolling away, seeking refuge under the bed even as the other items crashed to the ground. Gwaine allowed an amused grin to surface, motioning casually at the now-inanimate boots crumpled in a pile.  
  
"Think you missed a spot."  
  
"Gwaine!" Scrabbling after the helmet, Merlin's wide-eyed stare begged understanding, yet demanded nothing else--not pity, not forgiveness. Just a wordless plea for judgement withheld.  
  
His friend relished none of his anxiety, yet pulled a conspiratorial smile out of his ready arsenal and let it spread across his face. "So, where are we off to tonight? Same as before, or you have another trick up your sleeve?"  
  
The warlock's already pallid face was whiter than a sheet, while his long fingers groped blindly after the escaped helmet. "I--Gwaine, what you just saw--"  
  
"You don't need to explain, Merlin. Well, maybe over a nice pint, but it's pretty stuffy in here for that kind of talk, yeah?" At Merlin's wordless gaze, the swordsman shrugged as reassuringly as possible, holding up both hands in a gesture of goodwill. "Relax, I'm not telling anyone."  
  
After a long moment, a weak chuckle of relief escaped the warlock as he located the iron helmet and set it gently upon his faded blanket. "Thanks, Gwaine."  
  
Gwaine surveyed the scattered components of Arthur's armour as the manservant darted about picking it up, eyebrow quirking as he leaned lazily against the doorjamb. "Though I wouldn't mind you teaching some of that, looks handy."

* * *

 

The next tavern was one with a warm hearth, darker corners and less of a ruckus; at least, they weren't greeted by flying tankards this time. Gwaine was gone to the bar after again shoving Merlin carefully into a seat, returning with tankards for each.  
  
"So, about this little talent of yours." Gwaine downed a sip of ale, raising an eyebrow with the same brand of vague amusement that seemed be a general mien where he was concerned. "How'd you get it?"  
  
Merlin met his gaze with a giddy sense of alarm, both thrilled and cautious that someone else knew, someone besides Gaius and Lancelot, someone who appeared to be, by all rights, entirely at ease with the entire idea: and that someone happened to be Gwaine. "This is gonna sound really crazy, but. I was born with it."  
  
The swordsman tilted his head in acknowledgement, and Merlin gulped a swallow of cider before Gwaine's gaze pinpointed him once more. "And Arthur has no idea how many times you've used it to save his life."  
  
The statement was unrelentingly direct, though Merlin had revealed nothing about his part in Arthur's safety, and the warlock nearly choked in surprise, quickly setting his tankard down upon the table and wiping his chin on a fraying coat sleeve. "Heh, _I_  have no idea how many times I've used it to save his life. I've lost count."  
  
"Yet you ask for no recognition in any of it-- I'm sure there were times you could have convinced them that it was your own deed, unaided." Warm brown eyes, reflecting light from the flames dancing in the hearth, bored into vivid blue, and Merlin shrugged beneath the weight of offered glory. "Why not?"  
  
"Arthur will be a great king," he answered slowly, playing with the rim of his tankard. "It's my duty… to protect him, as best as I can. He's the ruler who will unite these lands, and I believe…" The manservant looked up, hollow cheeks shadowed in the dim light. "I believe that when Arthur is king, I won't have to hide."  
  
Gwaine stared back at Merlin: this man of incredible power so used to hiding behind the royal breakfast tray in the guise of a gangly servant, a being wiser than most he'd met who lived life washing the prince's socks and saving his life by turns.  
  
"Arthur's lucky," he finally said, "To have a friend like you."

* * *

 

Gwaine knew that immediately asking Merlin to cast some kind of spell was a rather cheap way to express his regard, and so he refrained. Three tankards later, however, while Merlin was choking on the contents of his new drink, seemed like a perfect place to start.  
  
"Ugh, is this ale?" Amidst coughs.  
  
"Yeah, did you want cider?" Between generous swills.  
  
Hesitantly. "No, this is okay, thanks."  
  
"But if you wanted, couldn't you change it into cider?" Far too curious to let the entire conversation go altogether.  
  
Mildly horrified, they're still in public no matter how vague the whispered query. "Shhh, not so loud!"  
  
"But can you?" Still curious. Still drinking.  
  
"No… I don't even know if there's a spell for that."  
  
"Oh." Gwaine looked disappointedly into his tankard, as if just suddenly realising that he'd finished the last vestiges of ale three gulps ago. "Could you refill this?"  
  
Merlin's eyebrows furrowed, and he sighed. No one was paying any attention, he had his back to the other tavern-goers besides: gazing intently at the mug, he whispered a string of whispers too faint and fast for Gwaine to catch, as lake-blue eyes flared golden for the barest hint of a moment.  
  
Then he was back to his usual, slightly-drunk self with an mildly accomplished grin curling between his cheekbones, motioning excitedly to the mug. "There, try that."  
  
The swordsman scooped up the tankard enthusiastically, tilting it backwards before suddenly pulling it back, a startled laugh commingling with a halting string of coughs as Gwaine shot him an accusatory look. "Merlin, my friend, I don't think that's ale."  
  
"It's not?" The warlock's brows knit together, concentration swimming in the warm haze of previously-downed cider as his companion shook his head vigourously. "What is it, then?"  
  
The swordsman tipped the mug towards Merlin's gently blurring gaze with a bemused expression, wrinkling his nose. "I'm no expert, but I think it's mud."  
  
Merlin laughed then, and in spite of the sudden flecks of dirt dotting his mouth, Gwaine let him.

* * *

 

Two shadows lay sprawled at the bottom of a woodbox in that peculiar inky blackness that only an underground space can provide, never mind the open window a mere meter above their heads. Booted ankles dangled over opposite sides of the case, squirming slightly as the pair managed to untangle themselves from the chunks of stored firewood that had hardly cushioned a rude landing from above moments prior.  
  
"Where are we, e'zactly?"  
  
"Great question, that… I think it's a… a cellar."  
  
"A-- _hic!_ \--cellar?"  
  
"Yeah… certainly dark enough."  
  
A faint splash was marked by a disgusted exclamation, and the lankier shadow recoiled as if he'd been bitten, smashing back into his companion's shoulder in the pitch. "Augh, what is that-- _hic!_ \-- _smell?_ "  
  
"I'm not sure I'm interested," came the reply from his side, sounding faintly nauseous.  
  
"Smells worse than Arthur's stale chamber pot," he mumbled, and Gwaine laughed beside him in the dark.  
  
"Hahaha, I'll be sure to tell him that next time I see him." Merlin jabbed a faint elbow in his direction, jarring another hiccup loose and earning another bout of laughter before falling silent again.  
  
"You know…" Gwaine sounded surprisingly ruminative despite the ale, as if breaching a notion that had been on his mind for more than just a few fleeting moments. "You should ask Arthur to come with us, tomorrow."  
  
The warlock wasn't sure which part of that befuddled him more: the suggestion that Arthur join them on these half-baked excursions in tavern-touring, or that Gwaine was already insinuating that tomorrow night was bespoken for. Either way, he managed an utterly profound "Hmm," unmarred by hiccups for at least another moment, and Gwaine chuckled.  
  
Some remote part of his cider-addled brain was already bemoaning this absurd sequence of events, but for the moment… sitting at the bottom of a positively rank-smelling cellar, giggling in the dark with firewood lumped at his back and this reckless friend at his side, seemed like a perfectly logical answer.

* * *

 

Twelve hours later, thanks to a well-executed curing spell and the timely completion of a flurry of duties in the wake of the upcoming tournament, Merlin found himself in a positively jubilant mood.  
  
"Someone's in unusually high spirits," Arthur groused, crumpling a parchment beneath his elbow and tossing Merlin a suspicious glare.  
  
"Yeeh. I mean, no-- well, I'm the same as I am every day. Sire." The honorific tacked on at the finish sounded more of an afterthought than anything else, earning a skeptical glance from the Pendragon currently shoving through papers on his desk. Merlin's guileless blue eyes met his with a dimpled grin, eyebrows twitching upwards in a fashion Arthur found particularly ridiculous.  
  
He pushed through another bundle of papers and found the other evening's tab from Gwaine's little tavern adventure, frowning at the document and batting it off the desk with little humour. "Hmm. And that requires you bustling about my chambers squawking like a canary, I suppose?"  
  
The manservant looked up again from across the room, surprised. "Canary?"  
  
"You're  _whistling_." Arthur pointed out, gritting his teeth as he watched Merlin's contrite smile curl across his lips, scrubbing doggedly at the mud crusted around the edge of the prince's training boots.  
  
"Sorry, sire." The dark-haired man bit his lip and continued working, seemingly unaware that he was vexing Arthur's patience to the utmost degree.  
  
With his servant in obvious reticence, he decided to try another, more direct tactic. "Or maybe because you were out with Gwaine, getting three-sheets-to-the-wind last night all over  _Camelot_."  
  
Merlin looked up from the leather sole in surprise, eying his master curiously whilst scraping the bristled brush across the heel with an audible  _skrrtch_. "Sorry, what?"  
  
"You were out last night, getting  _boiled as an owl_ , while I was here--" The Pendragon heir's gaze flicked around the room, alighting triumphantly upon the unlit hearth. "-- _Freezing_  in my chambers, because you failed to stoke the grate properly before you left!"  
  
At this delivery Merlin's brow peaked upward even further, pursing his lips in a bemused expression as he gave his master an almost pitying glance, as if Arthur himself had been the one recently indulging in an overabundance of cider. "Really sire, I can't say I know what you're talking about… and you asked me to let it alone, said it gets too warm for your liking in here at night--"  
  
Like all people, a prince has only so many limitations before he snaps, and Arthur had thoroughly surpassed his. "DRUNK, MERLIN! You were DRUNK last night, out with Gwaine!"  
  
His manservant's sombre expression at once shifted into something slightly less serious, biting his lip to keep the sheepish grin from his face. "Oh, that." Merlin suddenly appeared terribly interested in the mire coating the toe of Arthur's cast off boots, taking up that maddening  _skrrtch_  noise once again. "Well, not exactly  _drunk_. And I was even early this morning with your breakfast, and you said before that as long as I put in an honest day's work--"  
  
Arthur's tone was stony, every word clipped with sour precision. "That's not the  _point_ , Merlin."  
  
The warlock cast a glance at the prince--his master--his  _friend_ \--bent over the hillock of parchment, and Arthur's confident face suddenly seemed so pitifully downcast. Why, he looked as if…  _no. Not a chance._  
  
Wrinkling his nose, Merlin brushed carefully along the boot's toe, blue-eyed curiosity drifting suddenly back towards the young Pendragon, flinty glare now wasted on the court business littering his desk. Not that he could ever compare Arthur with anything remotely as endearing, but the expression on the prince's face resembled nothing so much as that of a neglected puppy, not unlike those that often wandered the marketplace in search of attention.  
  
Merlin scoffed under his breath and scrubbed at a scratch just to the right of the toe, endeavouring to rid himself of the absolutely imbecilic idea. Yet as valiantly as he fought to dispel the image from his mind, there was no going back. And perhaps due to his uncanny affection for any living creature--puppies and prats alike--the words were out of his mouth before he could finish thinking them.  
  
"So um, does that mean you'd like to tag along?"  
  
Not unexpectedly, Arthur swept him a look of disgusted disbelief-- as if the manservant had cheerily suggested that he eat a beetle or scrape the mud from his own royal boots-- while for his part Merlin merely grinned, scuffing caked muck from said boots with a far-too-innocent countenance.  
  
"I'm sure Gwaine wouldn't mind, if that's what you're worried about."  
  
The prince scowled further at the warlock's apparent good humour, balling up his leather gloves and pitching them across the room with perhaps more vigour than necessary, savage grimace emerging when one smacked thickly against his target's shoulder. "Merlin, don't be absurd. I'm the bloody PRINCE of Camelot, of course I'm not going out drinking with you!"  
  
Merlin shrugged, finishing with the leather and rising from his stool by the grate, offering Arthur a pleasant grin. "Oh well, I didn't think you would. But if you change your mind…"  
  
And with that, the manservant slid the door shut behind him, leaving a prince to nurse his twinge of envy-- he was  _not_  jealous, that was absurd-- over a mountain of official parchment and a dripping candle.

 

* * *

 

"Good thing Gaius is out again, he'd never forgive me for using my magic like this." Merlin confided, sharing a sheepish grin with Gwaine as he hefted the swath of borrowed fabric.  
  
"He'd say it's bad enough we're going out to the tavern every night, not to mention trying to get Arthur to come with us--well, he'd never believe that part anyway--but  _definitely_  not to enchant Arthur's old cloak with a shrouding spell." His brow furrowed slightly as he bit his lip, cocked his head. "On second thought, I don't think he knows I learnt this one."  
  
The swordsman watched him with a careful eye, silently marvelling at the power this gangly servant had somehow been naturally given. It almost made sense, in the way of all great ironies: the kingdom of a tyrant so forcibly against magic, while his son's personal attendant utilised such a force daily for the benefit of their rule. And never once asking for a shred of credit to his name.  
  
A scattered handful of murmured tones and the flash of ochre in his eyes, and then it was over: Merlin was shaking out the cloth, holding it up to the backdrop of the setting sun playing through the far window, nodding contentedly to himself. "There, that should do it."  
  
He turned a cheery smile on his companion, entirely unhurried. "Arthur should be coming soon, I think--"  
  
As if on cue, a sudden stilted knock sent Gwaine's flippant expression lengthening in surprise as they whirled towards the door, the young warlock tossing the cloak neatly over one arm. "Come in?"  
  
It was, unsurprisingly, Arthur Pendragon who stepped into the physician's chamber, gaze sweeping carefully through the room, though he did his best to appear utterly disinterested. "Ah, Merlin."  
  
The warlock cocked his head, lending the appearance of collected attention as Arthur addressed him, if a bit awkwardly. "I uh, wanted to inform you that I'm practising with the knights for several hours tomorrow afternoon. And I need my armour ready and in prime condition."  
  
Merlin didn't bat an eyelash, didn't hesitate for a moment. "Already done, sire. You'll find everything you need in the chest at the foot of your bed."  
  
"Oh." The prince's brow lifted, and he floundered on. "Well. Thank you, Merlin." Another cordial nod in reply, and Arthur seemed to notice the swordsman at his side for the first time. "Hello, Gwaine. You're going somewhere?"  
  
"To the tavern, it seems." At this ready announcement, and with full recall of the disaster his guest's first alehouse venture had been, Arthur opened his mouth to make a cautionary statement-- "A shame you have other duties to attend to."  
  
And of course, bloody  _of course_  it was Merlin to speak next, the glitter of a grin beneath his dark brow reflected in his eyes only, for his lips were pursed in an appropriately sympathetic expression. "Oh, it's alright sire. I already explained to Gwaine that you can't hold your ale very well, so--"  
  
"You explained--WHAT?!" Indignant blue eyes snapped to the swordsman behind Merlin, a royal finger shooting up as if to command Gwaine's very thoughts. "Don't pay any attention to him."  
  
Gwaine gave an obliging nod, though a wicked smirk was beginning to escape across his unshaven face, which Arthur pointedly ignored. "Merlin's  _clearly_  humiliated with his own pathetic tolerance and is seeking to compensate by lying about mine."  
  
The manservant stepped forward slightly, face deceptively childlike, so utterly convincing that Arthur himself almost believed it. Damn him to Hell for looking so guilelessly honest, the prince thought darkly, even as Merlin spoke.  
  
"Well seeing as you've impugned my honour by calling me a liar, don't you think--" And Arthur felt the trap closing in around him "--you ought to prove it?"  
  
 _Oh. No._  He was the future king of Camelot, and being goaded into proving anything by his  _manservant_  was downright insulting-- not to mention utterly idiotic. He cast the lanky servant a withering look. "Don't be stupid, Merlin."  
  
"That's alright." Gwaine this time, not even bothering to hide the grin of a challenge sliding up his lips. "It's nothing that can't be fixed with a little practise."  
  
"Pract--ugh!" The Pendragon heir sputtered, only half-believing that he was allowing himself to be provoked by his beanpole of a servant and a drunken wanderer-- granted, the latter had saved his life, but a drunken wanderer all the same.  
  
"I--I couldn't possibly walk into any tavern in Camelot without exposing my identity!" he finally snapped, having no better reply for the insinuations that his ability to hold spirits was less than polished. "This is an absolute farce, and Merlin, I'll have you mucking the stables a month from now."  
  
This proclamation didn't faze the guilty party in the slightest; on the contrary, Merlin merely grinned in that infuriating manner which made his ears appear even larger than they already were. "As you wish, sire. Although…"  
  
He traded a glance with Gwaine, who merely shrugged and retrieved his pouch from the table, re-knotting it round his hips. "The place we're going tonight, I have a feeling you'd blend right in."  
  
A swirl of dark fabric and suddenly there was a cloak draped over his thin arm, which he extended towards the prince. Arthur's brow knit together in irritation, wrinkling his nose even as he reached for the heavy mantle. Merlin read his expression before he could even open his mouth.  
  
"Before you ask, it's from the back of your wardrobe and no one will recognise it. And I…" Here he trailed off, wide blue eyes alighting elsewhere briefly before flicking back to Arthur.  
  
"Cleaned it for you," he finished belatedly, shoving the cloak generously into Arthur's face. "It's nice and clean now, you can smell it!"  
  
The possibility that a long-unused garment no longer reeked of dust and moth potion was oddly exciting for a dim-witted manservant, perhaps, but not a prince. The young Pendragon didn't even bother gracing that with an answer, just flung him an peculiar glance and plucked the cape out of Merlin's hands. "I can't believe I'm agreeing to this."

* * *

 

And so the unlikely trio of swordsman, servant, prince had padded silently through the streets of the lower town, with of course the latter intermittently glancing backwards all the while, not entirely convinced that his allocated disguise was fulfilling its duty to the utmost extent. Perhaps as a precautionary measure, he addressed his manservant just before the door, hand upon Merlin's shoulder in some strange sense of dependent superiority.  
  
"Now remember, in here you're not my servant--"  
  
He was interrupted by the roll of lake-coloured eyes regarding his hooded visage, dark brows snapping across a pale forehead. "--And you're just a simple clotpole without manners, I know."  
  
At such a grievous insult hackles were raised, the famed Pendragon temper flared briefly, and further altercation was only avoided by Gwaine shoving purposefully past the two in order to find the tavern door, mumbling something about a domestic and that he wasn't sure about anyone else, but ale would do just fine thanks and bloody hell,  _weren't they coming?_  
  
The prince and the warlock managed a tentative truce of narrowed eyes before falling into step after him, the hooded Arthur jostled unceremoniously into a dimly-lit seat while his manservant plodded cheerily after Gwaine to the bar, retrieving his own treasured mug of spiced cider and juggling another tankard of mead for the royal in disguise as Gwaine hefted a pair of tankards filled to the brim with ale. Upon their return Arthur gulped the mead gratefully in several huge swallows, pausing to clear his throat urbanely before polishing off the remainder of his cup.  
  
In little time the grainy surface of their table was littered with mostly-empty mugs and tankards: Gwaine being in possession of that peculiar gift in which one knows just when to stretch lazily to his feet and disappear once more to the bar, retrieving more for both himself and his companions.  
  
After a certain number of drinks, their dwindling conversation on the merits of chain mail was ended by something quite different from Arthur. As if addressing the whole of Uther's court, Arthur drew himself up beneath the darkened cloak and pegged his servant--his friend--with a slightly swaying finger. "Merlin, I've something… very important to ask you."  
  
Taking another generous gulp from the bottom dregs of his fourth tankard, the Pendragon heir narrowed his eyes at the man in question, who sat swilling cider with a curious sort of wide-eyed gaze. "I want to know…" Here his brows knitted together in concentration, and he propped his cloak-draped elbow on the table, chin in his hand as he watched Merlin with a stern expression.  
  
"Yes?" The manservant's glance flicked briefly to Gwaine's, who shook his head slightly, and turned his attention back to Arthur. "What?"  
  
The prince blinked, then leaned across the table with a terribly serious expression, fingers outstretched. "Where did you get this scarf? It's very…" Arthur sought for an adjective to properly suit it, but floundered rather quickly beneath an already-inadequate vocabulary, and came up empty-handed. "Very," he repeated doggedly.  
  
"I… I got it somewhere to keep off the chill," Merlin answered slowly, after a long moment and a sideways look cast at Gwaine (that spoke something like  _what is he doing, he really_ is  _drunk_ ), and Arthur pursed his lips thoughtfully.  
  
"I like it." Merlin nodded in apparent agreement, and royal fingers were suddenly clutching at the frayed edge of scarf wrapped around his neck, tugging insistently, much like a small child with their parent's hand. "Can I see it?"  
  
"Well, I--" Noting the petulant expression threatening to spill across Arthur's face, the warlock snorted lightly and reached back with mostly-steady fingers, bidding the knot come free as he handed it over carefully to the prince, who had since pushed aside his empty mug and collected it with grabby, greedy hands.  
  
"Thank you." Arthur regarded him imperiously, fumbling with the scarf's edges before giving up and wrapping it haphazardly around his own neck, smoothing its borders with a meticulous air and utterly ignoring Merlin's distant warning about needing it back, eventually.  
  
Surveying the scene with a faintly practised smirk, Gwaine shook his head and rose, clapping Merlin on the shoulder with a muffled chuckle. "I think this is the part where I get another ale, else he'll be wantin' my pendant next."

 

* * *

 

Merlin lay on his back, the ground beneath him slick with dew, soaking lightly through his jacket as he tugged the collar more snugly against his throat. Due to the recent habit of neglecting his bed in favour of more…  _organic_  sleeping spaces, the warlock realised in the early quiet that he was outside. Somewhere.  
  
The blush of rosy dawn trickled through his eyelids even as he shut them more tightly, pushing a sleeve worn soft over sore irises. "Nnrgh," he mumbled, turning over on his grassy pillow. A rather unexpected splash, and the sudden plunging shock of boots at once saturated forced tired eyes into opening at once.  
  
"Augh!" Merlin jolted in surprise, tumbling backwards as rivulets dripped from his waterlogged boots, sleepy eyes wrenched open by the startling effects of immersion by moat. Wait,  _moat?!_  
  
Scrubbing fiercely at his face with a dampened hand, the warlock fought to rouse himself back to full consciousness-- and wincing as his eyes peeked open beneath a stab of morning sunshine, realised that he was indeed sprawled on the grassy edge of Camelot's moat, sopping boots tucked up too late. A sudden startled glance to his left revealed Gwaine stretched on his side, dark hair tousled into a pillow beneath his arm, worn leather of his boots scuffed and coated in mud from the lower town-- and Merlin suddenly felt the vaguest memory of aimlessly chucking stones into the motionless stream in the dark, although for the life of him the young warlock couldn't say what had possessed them to do so at the  _moat_ , of all places.  
  
A dull ache in the back of his ears seemed to materialise in tandem with this fleeting remembrance, and Merlin found himself thanking any deity listening for being able to also recall the curing spell-- a whispered mutter and any tenderness in the side of his skull was at once mercifully fading away into a cool shadow. Feeling rather a bit more functional, the manservant nudged his friend lightly in the shin with a dripping toe, his face one of earnest haste. " _Gwaine_ _!_ "  
  
The man in question rolled over and mumbled, and Merlin felt himself sliding into a disgruntled frown as he mentally reviewed the hefty litany of morning duties sure to be waiting for him.  
  
And of course Arthur would be in a fine mood again, back to pitching mugs and ordering him about and--" _Dear God._  Merlin, do something about that dratted light before I get a headache."  
  
The warlock whirled round to his other side, eyes going wide as they landed upon the very man whose endless complaints had been echoing through his mind for the past minute and a half: curled into a comfortable knot amongst the grass, one royal wrist pressed firmly over eyes squinting shut. Finding himself at an utter loss, Merlin aimed a well-intentioned kick at Gwaine's calf and reached over at the same time, shaking the prince's shoulder with an unrelenting grip. "Arthur, you need to wake up."  
  
"Just pull the bloody curtains and have done with it," came the growled reply, and the warlock marvelled at how much a person could argue whilst still treading in the murky depths of sleep. "I feel  _awful._ "  
  
Of course. Merlin groaned exasperatedly and gnawed at his lip for a moment, before rolling his eyes to the heavens and whispering the by-now familiar handful of words beneath his breath. There. It shouldn't make Arthur feel  _rested_ , but it would hopefully alleviate the dull ache left behind from the ale still lingering at his temples.  
  
The Pendragon heir stirred as his manservant turned to the swordsman, half-expecting to apply the same treatment-- but Gwaine was already sitting back on his wrists, eyebrow quirking in amusement as he nodded his head at the still-groggy Arthur.  
  
"Ha, little braggart isn't quite as spirit-friendly as he likes to think," he grinned, overly-pleased with himself and the way that the morning was turning out; never mind the fact that he was sitting at the edge of a moat with the Prince of Camelot and his spell-casting manservant.  
  
"Well thanks to you, I've spent the past three nights in a stable, a cellar, and a moat." Merlin shot a sideways glance at the source of his mostly-empty grievance, who was currently preoccupied with re-fastening the straps on his leather vambraces, and decided that said nights could have considerably been spent in far worse locales.  
  
"And one day you'll thank me for introducing you to such quality sleeping establishments, I guarantee it." Gwaine tilted his head, still-grinning, still utterly unapologetic for the entire reckless week, and Merlin couldn't help smiling back: things had certainly been more interesting with him around, that was for sure.  
  
Until the whingy tone from Merlin's opposite side commandeered his attention, of course. "Merlin,  _what_  am I doing here?"  
  
The future king of Camelot was met at once by two blank stares, and then suddenly overt laughter as Merlin and Gwaine doubled over at something that was apparently very funny, while Arthur felt a sinking sensation settling in the pit of his stomach. "And  _why in the hell_  am I wearing your scarf?"  
  
The addressed servant was too busy giggling in that maddening fashion of his--honestly, it made his ears look three times bigger-- and so Gwaine finally coughed back another laugh, tossing Arthur his best attempt at a sympathetic expression.  
  
"Let's just say… that you had a little help from your friends."  
  
It was Merlin's stupid beaming grin in that moment, Arthur later decided; that allowed the Prince of Camelot to pitch the pair of them backwards into the moat, wearing a good-natured grin of his own.

 


End file.
